


You Shouldn't Waste Your Pretty Face

by trashcangimmick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, MTF Sam Winchester, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: On the botched Christmas, when you find out that monsters are real, something else vague and terrifying surfaces from the abyssal depths.“Maybe Dad thinks you’re a girl.”





	You Shouldn't Waste Your Pretty Face

**Author's Note:**

> [Halsey gives me wincest feels tbh. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRHNi3QfFlE)

On the botched Christmas, when you find out that monsters are real, something else vague and terrifying surfaces from the abyssal depths.

“Maybe Dad thinks you’re a girl,” Dean offers, as you strip away the wrapping paper from a Malibu Barbie.

For about three seconds, the rush of bliss is overwhelming. Everything wrong in the world is suddenly right. Maybe everything about your life has been one giant misunderstanding.

The hatred of haircuts. Soft voice and soft mannerisms. The distaste for violence and Dean’s hand-me-down clothes. In another life, maybe it could have been all right. In another life, maybe your mother is still alive, and your father works a normal job, and Dean has a little sister instead of a  _ brother. _

Of course, that’s not how anything worked out. So later that night, you watch passively as Dean tosses the doll in the garbage. Wait until Dean is definitely asleep before fishing it out again and hiding it under the pillow.

 

***

 

In some ways, it’s nice to have a secret. A purposeful one, at the very least. Not something to keep from classmates, or teachers, or police officers, or any other would-be rescuer. The doll isn’t sinister. Isn’t something that would split the family apart. It’s just a little sliver of a dream you keep, because otherwise the world is too bleak.

It’s like when Dean says  _ Samantha _ with a sneer on his face. Like it’s meant to wheedle and insult. But instead it just makes everything warm and fluttery for a few minutes.

It’s like when you make macaroni for dinner, because Dad is gone and Dean is out trying to scrounge for rent money. When he gets home real late to hot food he can’t help but make some sort of comment about what a  _ good little housewife  _ you are.

It’s like when Dean takes you to a department store to steal new clothes for the school year, and you manage to slip him long enough to snag a skirt off the clearance rack. You bundle it up under your sweater without him noticing. 

 

***

 

Sometimes, you fantasize about what it might be like. When you’re in a new town every couple of weeks. If you became someone else, who would know the difference?

You’re small enough. Skinny enough. Still have a high-pitched, nasally voice. 

If you put on a dress and some eyeliner, you doubt anyone would question the authenticity of it. Sometimes you’re not even enrolled long enough for anyone to ask about your transcripts or a birth certificate. How would any one know you weren’t  _ really _ a little girl?

Of course, Dean would never let you live something like that down. He’s the picture of masculinity, from the broad shoulders to the ever-present smell of leather and motor oil. It might kill him to be related to a sissy like you.

Just like it would kill you if he found out the truth and was disgusted.

 

***

 

“Sammy…  _ what… ?” _

Dean stands in the doorway, holding a bag of groceries. He was supposed to be working late tonight.

So of course, he’s caught you standing in front of the warped mirror that hangs above the creaky old wardrobe, mascara clumped on your eyelashes, mouth smeared with waxy blood-red lipstick. You’re wearing a spaghetti-strapped sundress you stole from a Goodwill in Tulsa. It’s white, patterned with large marigolds in red and orange. The hem of it flutters about halfway down your thighs. You used Dean’s razor to shave the baby hairs off your legs and underneath your arms. It’s not the first time, so you didn’t even cut yourself. It’s all smooth pale skin.

You stare at him. He stares back. It’s hard to tell which of you is the deer, and which is the roaring semi-truck.

For a moment, you wish your eyes would turn inky black, and he’d chalk it all up to demonic possession or something. He still might. Because wouldn’t it be easier than the truth? 

The silence doesn’t exactly break. The question still hangs in the air. But Dean at least puts down the bag and closes the door behind him. He folds his arms across his chest. Stern. Like he’s playing at being  _ John. _ But John doesn’t glare, so much as he yells and throws things, breath stained with alcohol and bitter regret.

You hate John. It used to be a dull resentment because he wasn’t ever around. But these days, if he happens to show his face, you just wish he was gone. One more lecture about how you’re not manly enough. Not strong enough. Not ready for  _ battle _ . One more slap in the face followed by a muddled, drunken apology, and you’re liable to kick him in the balls.

“I look good,” is what you end up saying. Hands planted on your hips. Defiant. You’re insane. You feel insane saying it. But what are you supposed to do? Apologize? Cry?

You’re twelve already. Too old to play that card. Prickly, rebellious energy is the only defense you have.

Dean opens his mouth like he’s going so say something, but the words seem to die in his throat. 

He takes the groceries to the kitchen and you hear the beep of the microwave. You don’t change clothes. You sit across the scrubbed-wood table from him, and eat your spaghettio’s like nothing is wrong. You leave lipstick marks on your glass of milk and it’s exhilarating. 

 

***

 

There’s a seismic shift in your home life whenever John is on a hunt. 

If he’s around, you wear the frumpy jeans and t-shirts. You don’t respond when he gripes about your hair being too long. You spend as much time with your nose shoved in a book as humanly possible.

When he’s gone, the world is sparkly and bright.

You wear mini-skirts, and flowy tops, and cheetah-print leggings. Blue eyeshadow, purple lipstick, as many butterfly clips in your hair as you can fit. You’re a fourteen-year-old mess playing at something nobody’s ever taught you about.

But if the way Dean looks at you is any indication, you’re not half bad at it.

He treats you much differently than he used to. When John’s around, he’ll still give you a friendly punch in the shoulder. Wrestle you to the ground if you’re being a brat. Fart, and burp, and make stupid jokes.

When you’re  _ Samantha, _ he’s very careful. Almost reverent. Lets you pick the TV channel. Lets you hog the blankets. Cooks for you. Brings home  _ candy  _ he lifted from the gas station _. _

He steals makeup for you now. Brings home soft, frilly things and mumbles about how he thought it would look good on you as his cheeks flush. 

No matter what town you’re in, there’s girls making moony eyes at him. He’s the classic high-school dropout. Working in a mechanic’s garage, or bussing tables. All ropey muscle and and freckled skin. A deep voice like a predator’s growl, with rough hands made for sin. 

There’s only room for one princess in his narrow world, and you’ve had your claim on that throne for years.

 

***

 

You lose your virginity with Led Zeppelin playing in the background. 

Well, it’s hard to say if you were actually a virgin before. Between all the blowjobs, and fingers, and whispered filth in the dark.

It’s hard to think about right and wrong when you’ve seen demons possess nuns, monsters eat children’s souls, and werewolves rip innocent people limb from limb. It all instills a certain brand of nihilism in you. Nothing matters. Nothing happens for any greater reason. The world is full of awful, evil things. Everyone dies, sad or bloody.

In the grand scheme of it all, what does it matter if your brother’s cock is up your ass, and it has both of you gasping for more.

You’re slick with spit, and dollar-store lube, and Dean’s so big, stretching you towards an ecstatic sort of fullness. You’re wet. Dribbling on your stomach as he thrusts. Your mascara is running. Probably staining the pillowcases. He didn’t bother to take off your dress. It’s just rucked it up around your narrow waist. You’re still bone thin. Willowy. Angular and harsh, like a steel sculpture.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean sounds half broken. “Feel so good, baby.”

You kiss him on the side of the mouth. Kittenish licks and presses of lips. His weight on top of you is addictive. Comfort, safety, and white-hot lust all rolled into one. 

_ Squeeze me babe, until the juice runs down my leg… squeeze me babe till the juice runs down my leg… the way you squeeze my lemon, I’m gonna fall right out of bed… _

Dean’s boombox crackles in the corner. You wonder if he chose this song on purpose, or if it’s an amusing accident. He would plan something like that. Even if he’d never admit it. He makes hookup mix-tapes for when he takes you on long drives in the car, after John is passed out drunk. 

Hopeless romanticism is probably a sickness in this case. But it feels so good.

Dean shifts, and suddenly he’s rubbing against that spot inside you that makes everything go shuddery. Almost uncomfortable but you never want it to stop. Your thighs tremble. Every breath comes out a little whine.

“You close, darlin’?” He breathes, a puff of humid air across the shell of your ear. “Gonna come for me? God, I wanna feel it so bad.”

The fire in your belly curls even hotter. You dig your nails into his shoulders. Rocking back against his thrusts. If you touched yourself, it would be over. But you don’t want it to end. If you could just surf this edge of sweet pleasurepain, toomuchnotenoughness forever…

But then Dean slips a hand between your bodies. Touches you just the way you like best. Your nerve endings crackle with impossible electricity.

You have full-body orgasms. You roll your hips, and shake everywhere. Can’t breathe. Lost in the crash of pleasure. It’s noisy. Moaning and carrying on like a bitch and heat. Dean isn’t far behind you. He splashes and dribbles more slick inside you, letting out a low grunt.

You may never know if this is heaven or hell. It's an addiction you're not liable to abandon anytime soon. 

 

***

 

“You sure about this Sammy?”

Dean can’t seem to stop chewing on his plump lower lip. The first bell has probably rung at this point, but you’re still sitting in the passenger’s seat. Face all made up, pale pink dress, denim jacket, steel toed boots, clutching a purse to your chest.

Des Moines might not be the best place for your debut, but you’re tired of waiting. If it goes badly, you’ve got a butterfly knife in your coat pocket.

“Yeah,” you swallow. Try to brush your hair back behind your ear. This might be the scariest thing you’ve ever done. Considering you cut off a vampire’s head with an axe last week, that’s really saying something.

Dean puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes. “Call me if you need anything.”

You nod. Heart beating in your throat. Open the car door and step out. 

You feel self-conscious walking up to the unfamiliar school. Your shoulders are too broad. You’re too tall. This is never going to work.

The front office is open, brightly lit. There’s a middle-aged woman with glasses behind the desk.

“Can I help you?” She drawls.

“Um… yeah, my name’s Samantha Winchester? I’m new…”

“Oh. Right. Your brother called yesterday. Go on and have a seat. We’ll get your schedule in order.”

You sit down. Head spinning slightly. Smiling like an idiot. Maybe today is the first day of a beautiful new life. Maybe you’re just pretending, reaching for things you’ll never really taste.

Either way, you’re excited to see how it turns out.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the [tumbles.](http://trashcangimmick.tumblr.com/)


End file.
